


A Legitimate Matter of Blood

by ohmytheon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Prince Gendry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:10:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmytheon/pseuds/ohmytheon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which King Robert Baratheon legitimizes Gendry so he lives at the Red Keep with his father, uncles, and new family. Now Gendry must deal with what it means to be a highborn and royalty, along with the upcoming arrival of the Starks. Things certainly aren't going to be easy, but at least he's got a family, even if a few of them don't seem too pleased with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Timing

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be just a one-shot, but then I enjoyed writing it way too much. Baratheons really are my favorites to write and I adore Gendry too much. There will be hints of Arya/Gendry in later chapters, but really, this fanfic is mostly about family and Baratheons.

“I don’t… I don’t think it’s supposed to be this _tight_.”

“Tight? The boy doesn’t even know when clothes fit him. We’ve got a lot of work cut out for us.” Lord Renly Baratheon leaned in closer. “If you want to see some clothes that are tight, just look at your father.”

Gendry looked around the room at the three men standing before him. Two were lords and one was a king – all three of them were apparently his new family that he didn’t really know what to make of. One day he’d just been an orphan working as a blacksmith’s apprentice, hoping to make the best of what little life he had. The next day, he’d been informed just who his deadbeat father was. And somehow or another, he’d managed to find himself being legitimized, with a new name and House and everything.

It was all very complicated and confusing; and he did his best to not think about it, lest he wanted his head to hurt some more.

Well, Gendry tried not to do as Lord Renly muttered under his breath, but Gendry couldn’t help but look at his father. Robert Baratheon, the king, was quite fat, but apparently he’d looked nearly identical to Gendry at his age. All that did was make Gendry worry that he was going to end up fat when he got older, but neither Stannis Baratheon nor Lord Renly were fat, so he supposed he’d just have to be careful. He dropped his eyes to the ground, unable to keep from the habit he’d acquired as a child when around highborns. _You’re a highborn now too, stupid,_ he thought. Only, despite the clothes they gave him and the fact that he lived in the Red Keep now, he didn’t feel like a highborn. He still felt like a bastard.

He still felt like just himself – just Gendry, not Gendry Baratheon or even Gendry Waters.

“I look stupid,” Gendry finally settled on as he caught sight of his reflection again. Lord Renly had insisted on buying him a new outfit for the arrival of Lord Stark and his daughters. He’d hated the idea of it, but hadn’t even bothered to protest. At least this time Renly had gone on his own. The first time, Gendry had gone with him, in order to get his measurements done, and it had been a nightmare. He never wanted to go shopping with his Uncle Renly or Ser Loras Tyrell ever again. Not only had he felt out of place in a shop filled with clothes that cost more than he’d made his entire life, but he’d felt like a third wheel with his uncle and his uncle’s friend.

Still, Renly laughed, all good-natured and cheerful. That much could be said. He was the nicest of the whole lot and did his best to make sure that Gendry was at least somewhat comfortable with everything but clothing. “You don’t look stupid. You look _handsome_. All the girls will be fawning over you.” There was a strange look about the smirk on his face. “Maybe even some of the boys too.”

Gendry flushed a color that looked painfully similar to Lannister crimson.

“Nearly five and ten and still blushing at the thought of a romp in the sack!” King Robert guffawed deeply and pat Lord Stannis on the back, a little harder than was necessary. Stannis looked quite affronted and glowered at his older brother. “Sure this one isn’t yours?”

“You’re the only one with bastards,” Stannis replied through gritted teeth. He always seemed to speak like that. When Gendry had first met Lord Stannis, it had been in Tobho Mott’s armory shop, back when Gendry had still just been a bastard. Stannis had been the first one to recognize who Gendry was, though it had been the late Lord Jon Arryn that had told the king about his bastard son. Gendry could still remember the way Stannis has ground his teeth upon first looking at him.

Robert placed his hands on Gendry’s shoulder. “He’s not a bastard anymore, Stannis,” the king pointed out in a low, protective grumble. It was strange thinking that the king might feel protective of him when no one had ever protected him before. He’d only had himself after his mother’s death. Though Gendry was tall for his age, he was still not as tall as his father. He had a few years left to grow, of course, so maybe then, he’d be just as tall. Stannis and Renly were tall as well. It was a Baratheon feature apparently, along with black hair and blue eyes. He always felt strong and tall, older than his age, when around other kids, but when he was with these men, he felt much like a child. These were all men grown, though Renly only had about seven years on him. Gendry was still a boy, a king’s boy.

Gendry cleared his throat, causing Robert to step to the side slightly, and cast them a nervous glance. “Maybe, uh, maybe it isn’t proper of me to, you know…to be at the welcoming feast when Lord Stark and his van arrive…” All three Baratheon brothers looked at him, which only made him feel even more nervous. He tugged at his collar, feeling hot under the stuffy material. “I mean, I’m not…you know, I’m not exactly proper and…well-mannered and all that sort.”

Robert snorted, which wasn’t proper or well-mannered at all, but he was the king, so he could do whatever he liked. “Then I hear you’ll get on well with Ned’s youngest daughter. Apparently she’s a wild one.”

Renly gave him a complacent smile. “You’re more well-mannered than most people, Gendry. Besides, it’ll be another week before they arrive, plenty of time to review lessons on etiquette and dancing and such.” Oh, great, there would be dancing. That didn’t make him feel any better in the least bit, even with a week of practicing. He’d rather be in the armory, beating a hammer against a burning sword, than prancing around in a room. He’d rather be wearing that old leather apron and his old dirty clothes than these stuffy clothes. His father didn’t look too pleased to be in them either, but that was probably because he preferred dallying about naked with women.

“It would seem a slight to House Stark if one of the princes decided to not make an appearance,” Stannis added in a no-nonsense tone. He didn’t look too pleased with the idea of Gendry being at the feast either. Well, it was either that or he just didn’t want to be at the feast. His father said that Stannis wasn’t one for parties or feasts or anything remotely fun – that all he did was grumble, make pessimistic comments, and look down on fun. Gendry was more than certain that he didn’t care for the type of fun that his father did, but he said nothing on the matter and just smiled and nodded his head whenever things like that were brought up.

“The Queen won’t be happy about it,” Gendry sighed, deflating on the spot.

Then again, the Queen wasn’t happy about _anything_ when it came to Gendry or even her husband period. Whenever he caught sight of her looking at him, it was only with pure venom in her green eyes, as if she hoped to poison and kill him on the spot with just a glare. It made him uncomfortable, to say the least, but he didn’t want to say anything bad about the Queen, so he kept it to himself and didn’t tell his father or anyone. One of the biggest problems he’d come across since being pulled into this family was that he never felt like he could trust anyone. Even when he’d lived on the streets as an orphan, he’d had friends that he could tell secrets to, even if he hadn’t really had any big secrets. In the Red Keep, Lord Varys the Spider seemed to know everyone’s secrets, whether they liked it or not; and so Gendry thought it best to just not speak up at all. If he didn’t say anything, then how could anyone ever know?

“Bugger on Cersei,” Robert dismissed gruffly. “You’re a Baratheon. Everyone can see that plain as day. It wouldn’t have been right to just waste you on the streets in that little armory shop.”

 _What about all your other bastards?_ Gendry couldn’t help but think. _What’s so special about me and not them? Why am I a Baratheon and why aren’t they?_

Those were thoughts that Gendry kept to himself. It sounded terrible, but every night since he’d laid in that plush bed and not the cot in the back of the armory, he’d had to remind himself of how lucky he was. He wasn’t just an orphan boy anymore. He may not have had a mother, not really, but he had a father now. He had a home. He was a Baratheon. He could have anything or anyone he wanted. He would never want for anything, never be cold, never go hungry ever again. He was a _prince_. That was a far-cry from a lowly blacksmith, even if he had been talented. And still, there were times when he longed for that simple peasant life. He longed for privacy, for simplicity, for the boring every day nothings that he couldn’t have now. The only time he was truly alone was when he went to the privy and even then he felt smothered.

Everyone wanted to talk to him. Everyone wanted to help him. Everyone wanted to meet this new Baratheon boy.

But they didn’t really want to – they just acted like they did because it was expected of them and because he was royalty. The people here weren’t really his friends. The only things that were real were his family. Robert was his father and Renly and Stannis were his uncles. He had a little cousin named Shireen by Stannis as well, though they hadn’t met yet. The only other brother he knew about was Edric Storm, because he’d been acknowledged, but not even Edric, who was of noble birth, had been actually legitimized yet. Gendry had been stupid enough to ask the king about Edric; and the king had just given him a smile that suggested he thought Gendry was being thick and just said, _“All in good time, my boy, all in good time.”_ But why had it been Gendry’s time and not Edric’s? Gendry thought for sure that Edric would have made a better prince than him, even if he was younger.

“It’ll be fun, you’ll see,” his father told him, all confidence. Robert Baratheon was the type of man that loved having fun, even if it meant possibly killing someone. That was what Stannis had grumbled about at least. The king ruffled Gendry’s hair, making it look normal. Gendry couldn’t remember ever combing his hair before, but now he had to do it every day, and he thought it looked a bit strange. Renly had even commented that he might grow it out, though Gendry preferred to keep it short like Stannis. Well, except he had more hair than Stannis, who was already going bald.

Despite his doubts, Gendry forced a little grin onto his face. “Fun, yeah. I’ve never met a Northerner.”

“Ned will like you,” Robert told him, which was at least a little bit reassuring. Eddard Stark was the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. Gendry was rather hopeful that the man, his father’s best friend who had helped win the Iron Throne, wouldn’t dislike him. “The only thing that could possibly upset him is if you try to bed one of his girls, I wager.”

Gendry’s grin fell quickly. “I would never.” He glanced at Renly, who wore an amused look, and Stannis, who looked as if he didn’t believe Gendry. All Gendry could do was shake his head quickly. “I wouldn’t dare dishonor any lady.”

His father winked at him. “Then we’ll make sure you don’t mix beds with a lady then, eh?”

Gendry could have told the king that he didn’t want a whore, but his words would’ve fallen on deaf ears. King Robert was set on making a man out of Gendry as soon as possible. Every time it was brought up, he would go silent and just wait for the moment to pass. The only problem was that it was brought up more often than not, especially when the king was drinking. _“Like father, like son,”_ he’d laugh, and Gendry would laugh weakly in return and then stare at his food as hard as possible. It wasn’t that he didn’t like girls. It was just that, well, he didn’t really know how to deal with them. He had been taught to never speak to highborn girls and so he’d spent most of his time staring at the ground when ladies came about. Prostitutes just made him uncomfortable. He thought it was important that a girl actually want it, and not just for coin. Try telling King Robert Baratheon that though. He was a gift to women and so his son would be as well.

 _I’m going to end up as sour as Lord Stannis at this rate,_ Gendry thought with an inward sigh.

“Come on, let’s leave the boy be,” Renly said, as if sensing the sullenness that had overcome Gendry. He always seemed to be easygoing, even when everyone else wasn’t. He was still young though, only one and twenty, so he made all the jokes he could while Stannis called him childish. No one dared call the king immature though. “You’re going to make him blush worse than a maid.” At this point, Gendry didn’t even try protesting the fact that he’d never been with a woman. He just accepted defeat. “We’ve got a lot of preparations and decisions to make before the Starks arrive.”

“You mean _you two_ have a lot of decisions to make,” Robert corrected, picking up a goblet of wine. His squire, Lancel Lannister, had made sure to fill it up with a pitcher to spare before the king had shooed him out of the room. There had been thought that Gendry might take Lancel’s place as Robert’s squire, but Gendry had somehow managed to convince them that that wouldn’t be right since he was Robert’s son. That and he didn’t know a thing or two about swordfighting, being a knight, or any of that stuff. It had fallen upon Stannis to teach Gendry or, well, Robert had made it fall upon Stannis at least. “I’ve got important things to do.”

Stannis rolled his eyes. “I do not think whores count as important things to do, Robert.”

“So says the man that lies with his wife only once a year on a full moon,” Robert replied, laughing heartily before finishing his glass of wine.

Lord Stannis looked like he wanted to say something terribly rude, but instead he just grinded his teeth and looked back at Gendry with such a heated glare that it startled the younger boy. “Your lesson will be at five sharp. Do not be late.”

“Yes, m’lor– I mean, yes, my lord.” It took everything in Gendry to remember himself and speak properly. He’d gone around calling everyone “m’lord” his first week so much that Queen Cersei had made a quip that there was a new Beggar Prince. King Robert had smacked her for that, since it apparently had something to do with the Targaryens. And if there was one thing the king hated more than small council meetings, it was Targaryens. Gendry learned quick from the light bruise on the Queen’s face to never mention them. He hadn’t thought it proper of his father to do that, but no one said anything, and so he hadn’t either. Still, it was hard to remember to say “my lord” and not “m’lord” like a lowborn.

Stannis gave him one more passing look before storming out of the room. Gendry wasn’t quite sure why Stannis seemed so irritated by him – maybe it was because he was still a bastard in Lord Stannis’ eyes – but the man never treated him differently from anyone else, which Gendry liked. Stannis treated highborns and lowborns alike in that they all seemed to aggravate him.

Renly smiled pleasantly. “I’ll see you at supper, Gendry. Don’t let Stannis bother you too much. You’ll find out soon enough that he’s always in a foul mood and nothing solves it, especially not family time. We’ll go do something fun tomorrow that doesn’t have to do with getting beat with a stick or whoring about, I promise.”

As long as it wasn’t shopping again or dealing with lords and ladies of the court, Gendry would be happy with anything. That was what Renly was helping him with. Gendry nodded his head; and Lord Renly left the room, so that only Gendry and King Robert remained. It was somewhat startling at how much Gendry looked like his father. Everyone always commented on how Gendry was the spitting image of Robert Baratheon at his age and how remarkable it was. There was not a hint of his mother in him, that blonde woman that sang to him when he was sick and said that his father would beat him when he was bad. Gendry wouldn’t dare do anything to upset the king though – or at least he’d do his damned best not to. It was hard to tell with someone when they were in their cups.

With one hand holding a cup of wine, Robert put his free hand back on Gendry’s shoulder. “You’re going to make a fine Baratheon, a true one. I hate to say it, but I feel like you’re more my son than Joffrey or Tommen. They look nothing like me and act nothing like me.” Gendry thought that was rather unfair of the king to say. From what he’d seen, Prince Joffrey was rather keen on pleasing his father and tried acting like him whenever he could. They both had a very proud streak in them – and a vicious one as well – but Gendry said nothing and just looked at his father. “Things can get sticky when bastards are legitimized, but I know I made the right decision with you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Gendry said humbly, hoping against hope that he sounded earnest.


	2. A Bastard's Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the week before the Starks arrive, Gendry must survive all the lessons from his uncles and father give him in order to act more like a high born, but that is easier said than done with this new family.

The week before the Starks arrived in King’s Landing only served to make Gendry feel as if he’d been run over by a stampede of horses.

He had to make up for nearly five and ten years of not being a highborn in a matter of a few weeks; and the last one had definitely been the worst. Of course he did his best to learn things as soon as possible, but there was no way he could remember all the lessons he’d been taught. The fact of the matter was that he had lived a lowborn life and therefore had a lowborn mind. At least, that was what Maester Pycelle had said after Gendry had shown abysmal results of his reading skills at the end of his third week as a highborn. _I’m the first illiterate prince to exist,_ he couldn’t help but think. When he’d said this out loud, Lord Renly had been most comforting, telling him that the words would come to him in time. His father had just laughed and told him that words were useless anyways. _“As long as you’ve got a sword or hammer in your hands, no one will question you,”_ King Robert had said.

The King couldn’t know how right he had been. Gendry missed the feel of a hammer in his hand and the heat of the forge. He’d felt good there, like he knew what he was doing and what he was meant for. There hadn’t been any questions about his intelligence or skills. He had been good at that, much better than he was at reading and writing. He hadn’t needed words back then, but now they were crippling him and he couldn’t get his hands on a hammer if he tried. He knew that because he had tried. A little over a week ago, he’d asked about making a sword, but then Robert showed up with a fantastic sword ordained with the Baratheon colors a few days later.

A sudden thwack to his head sent Gendry reeling and he toppled backwards onto the ground.

“Are you even paying attention?”

When Gendry pulled the lid from his helm open, he saw Lord Stannis standing above him, a frown on his face and a disappointed look in his eyes. That was what Gendry had come to hate the most: he hated the way that he only seemed capable of disappointing his new family. It truly frustrated him, to the point where he’d begun to lose sleep. He’d never once disappointed Tobho Mott, but no matter how much his father clapped him on the back or Renly congratulated him for not stepping on his dancing partner’s feet, Stannis never hid his disappointments behind a smile or glass of wine. He had to deal with his troubles during his lessons with Stannis; and he was particularly unforgiving.

“Sorry, I was just–” Gendry pulled himself to his feet, the armor shifting on his body uncomfortably until he was standing up straight. It felt strange to be the one wearing the armor and not the one making it. “I was just thinking about my lessons with Lord Renly.”

Stannis rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re not dancing anymore, so you need to pay attention to the here and now.” He tapped Gendry’s helmet again with the tip of his sword, making a pinging sound. “The moment you stop paying attention in battle is the moment you get yourself killed.”

Gendry pulled his helmet off his head and gave his uncle a sullen look. “But I’m not going to be in battle.”

“You might be one day.”

“You don’t think… I mean, you don’t think a war will start, do you?” Gendry could not stop his brow from furrowing worriedly. During one of his history lessons (and why in Westeros he needed to learn history was beyond him), he had learned about the Blackfyre Rebellions, all of which had occurred because bastards had been legitimized. At least, that was what he thought they were about. Or maybe it had been the War of the Ninepenny Kings. _Bullocks, I can’t remember a damned thing._

Stannis looked at him carefully, having forgotten at least for a moment what they were doing. “Your father is in control of the Seven Kingdoms. His rebellion brought them closer together than ever before.”

Gendry’s shoulders dropped; and he relaxed slightly, but there was still a slight nervous tension in the air. He might not have been incredibly bright, but he was smart enough to know that Stannis hadn’t truly answered him. Gendry had asked a yes or no question, neither of which Stannis had answered with. His head hurt too much to think about it though, both from the blow to the head that Stannis had given him and all the lessons that had been crammed into his mind in a short amount of time. Part of him wanted to prod Stannis for further answers, but he still didn’t feel like it was his place yet, even if he was a prince now.

“Come on then,” Stannis said, pointing at him with a sword. “You’re not going to be in any shape to compete in the Hand’s Tourney, but maybe, if you keep up, you’ll be better than a hedge knight in a year’s time.”

Gendry glanced around and spotted a few different types of weapons. “Could I try out the warhammer, my lord?”

Stannis sighed and let his sword fall down, so that its tip grazed the dirt. He glanced at the warhammer, which was nearly new-looking, despite it being old. No one used the warhammer. Gendry could tell its history just by looking how few of scratches was on the metal. “You would ask things like that.” When Gendry glanced at him nervously again, Stannis shook his head and waved his free hand in that direction. “I cannot tell you no; and it will be healthy for you to get to feel of many types of weapons, not just a sword.” As Gendry excitedly made to switch weapons, he could hear Stannis mutter under his breath, “No one’s touched that thing since Robert for nearly seven years. Why do they still have it?”

 _For me,_ Gendry thought as he picked the warhammer up and admired it. It felt like home in his hands. _They have it here for me._

_* * *_

“And – one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three – there you go, Gendry, you’re getting the hang out of it!”

At least Renly was pleased with Gendry’s progress. Gendry himself still didn’t know what the hell he was doing; he just felt like he was spinning around in circles and he didn’t know where he was going and all he could do was pray to the gods that he did not step on this poor girl’s feet again. Despite the fact that he’d stepped on her feet enough to break her toes, his dancing partner seemed surprisingly in good nature and wasable to keep a smile on her face nearly all the time, although he’d catch a cringe whenever he did bumble and step on her toes. How Lord Renly was still able to find other highborn girls that were willing to dance with him during lessons was beyond Gendry. He was certain all the girls he’d danced with previously had grown tired of his incessant apologies and stumbling nature.

For all the grace that his Uncle Renly had, Gendry was certain that not a drop of that grace had been given to him through his father. Maybe it wasn’t really a Baratheon thing. Maybe Renly was just gifted whereas his father, Stannis, and Gendry were not. After all, his father wasn’t really one for dancing; and he knew without a doubt that Stannis wasn’t either. No, Renly had all the grace, but he was doing his best to ensure that Gendry at least wouldn’t make a fool of himself during feasts.

Honestly, Gendry preferred waving a sword around in the sweltering heat while clad in armor against Stannis than he did dancing in the cool room in highborn clothing with a pretty girl. He was still trying to get used to actually looking highborn ladies in the eyes and not muttering, “M’lady,” every time he passed one. It was hard enough to do without turning an alarming shade of red. How was he supposed to do this every day? It was like he was being forced to change every, little thing he’d been taught and had beaten into him.

“Very good, Gendry, very good.” Renly clapped as he walked over to them, a smile on his face. He always seemed to have some sort of smile on his face. Gendry liked that about Lord Renly. He was always in a good mood, unlike Stannis who was never in a good mood and his father who had mood swings that were worse than any storm. Gendry and his dancing partner, a highborn girl whose name Gendry had not been able to hear when she’d squeaked it out to him early, parted. She curtseyed to him; and he gave her an awkward bow. He was supposed to bow, right? Or was he since he was a prince? Seven hells, this was confusing. He watched her scurry away. “I know you’ve been very wary about dancing, but the moment you stopped thinking about it so hard, it came to you easily enough. And you weren’t wearing that scrunched up look that you do when you’re thinking hard.” Gendry gave his uncle a somewhat embarrassed look; and Renly put a hand on his shoulder. “You just have to be more confident in yourself, is all.”

“It’s kind of…” Gendry heaved out a tired sigh. “It’s kind of hard to do that. I wasn’t born… Well, I guess I was born with it, but… I don’t know.”

“You’re not used to this kind of life; and it’s a bit overwhelming now that you’ve been thrust into it, I know.” At least Renly was understanding. There were times when Gendry was sure that he would fail so terribly at being a prince and highborn that his father would unlegitimize him and toss him back out onto the streets. Even Renly grew frustrated when Gendry struggled with a word in a children’s book, but then they would see just how hard he was trying and all would be well again. If a child could do it, then so could he, but it felt so much harder to learn now that he was nearly a man grown. “But you’ve come very far; and we are all very proud of you.”

“I don’t think Lord Stannis is,” Gendry muttered under his breath.

Renly let out a laugh. “Stannis probably thinks it’s too optimistic to show pride, but rest assured, he is proud of you. He wouldn’t be so hard on you if he didn’t think you showed potential or growth.” That was nice to know at least, seeing as how Stannis seemed to try to beat every bit of his knowledge into Gendry’s head. They began to walk out of the room. Gendry didn’t know where they were going, but anywhere but this room would be nice. He was so done with dancing, even though he still had three more lessons before he’d actually have to do it in public.

 _The Stark girls are going to think that I’m so bad at dancing that I’m a court fool,_ Gendry thought with an inward growing panic. He dreaded their arrival more than anything. It was one thing to be judged by his new family, but it was another to be judged by another family. So far, he’d only danced with a handful of highborn girls, all of whom he was rarely able to actually speak with. But the Starks would be living with them in the Red Keep. He would see them on a daily basis. They were on his level of being highborn, so they’d be able to make fun of him and everything, he was certain.

“Maester Pycelle says that you are greatly improving with your letters,” Renly spoke up.

“Oh, well, I’m…alright.” Gendry mustered up a weak smile. “I don’t think they’re meant to be learned completely in just one month.”

Renly chuckled again. “No, you’re quite right. It will take months; and even then, you will struggle. But you must be practicing on your own outside of lessons. He said there was a marked improvement.”

“I read every night and I write down every word that I struggle with, sometimes right before the sun comes up,” Gendry admitted.

“Determination – that is very good.” Renly nodded his head knowingly. “I know few boys that would be so vigilant in their lessons. Your father certainly wasn’t. He probably skipped as many lessons as he could when he was a boy.”

But it was a lot more than that to Gendry. Besides learning swordplay and dancing and all the proper etiquette, Gendry mostly wanted to learn how to read and write. That was by far the most important thing for him right now. Not every prince was a great swordsman or jouster; not every prince was fluid at dancing; and not every prince was perfectly charming – but all princes, even probably all highborns, knew how to read and write. That was a defining feature between highborns and lowborns. Everyone knew that. His father and uncles and their highborn friends might not be able to understand it, but Gendry knew that no amount of titles, wealth, or House name would ever make him feel like a highborn until he could read and write.

“I just want to be a good Baratheon,” Gendry said, thinking about his father. So this was what it felt like to have a parent – a crushing, desperate need to please the one person that could take everything hope away with a frown that nearly consumed him. It wasn’t nearly as grand as he and the other orphans at Flee Bottom used to make it out to be.

Renly stopped and gave him a careful look. “You are – you will be. Your father is very proud of you.”

_I just wish he’d tell me that when he wasn’t drunk, like you do._

* * *

This was the worst idea to have ever been thought up in history. Gendry was more than certain that no amount of history lessons would change his mind otherwise. This had to top the cake. This had to be the most excruciatingly painful and awkward thing that anyone could have gone through. He was half in mind to tell his father that he wanted a whore right this instant, if only so he could escape the room and never come back again, but it was hard enough to open his mouth to breathe, much less speak about whores.

When he had pictured having a family and what it might be like to sit down and eat as a family, Gendry had never once pictured something as awkward and terse as eating with his father, the Queen, and her three children. This was miserable. More than anything, he wished that he could’ve eaten supper with his uncles and his father or even just with his father. Anything would be more bearable than this. It felt like punishment to him, so he was worried that he might have angered his father in some way. Still, he didn’t think so, considering that his father didn’t look too cheerful either. In fact, no one looked pleased to be here, except for maybe Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella, both of whom didn’t seem to care that Gendry had been legitimized.

Prince Joffrey, on the other hand, looked as if he wanted to stab Gendry with the knife he was using to cut his meat with.

_So much for a happy family._

Some people might try to make small talk, but Gendry had learned from an early age to know when to speak up. The truth was that it was very rare when someone should speak up. All of them just seemed to want to get through this as quickly and painlessly as possible; and if that meant eating in silence with just their silverware and plates clanging and the sound of his father and the Queen drinking wine, then so be it. Gendry was not fool enough to open his mouth and allow room for Joffrey or the Queen to make biting remarks towards him. He was wary of what his father might do should they do that; and he didn’t want anyone to get slapped on account of his honor or whatnot being besmirched. He was so tired of that.

Having found his throat and mouth dry, despite having not spoken for what felt like hours, Gendry picked his goblet up and went to take a drink, only to find that he was out of wine. He’d only had one cup and it wasn’t nearly enough to go to his head, but he was both too nervous to ask for more because he was insecure and because he thought it might look bad. He wasn’t going to drink nearly as much as he noticed that his father did; and he didn’t want anyone, especially not the Queen, to think he was.

It didn’t slip past King Robert’s sight though. “Do you need more wine, Gendry?”

“N-no, Your Grace,” Gendry stammered out. He still wasn’t sure what he was supposed to call his father, so he opted for the proper titles, especially when around the Queen and her children. She liked it when he acted as if they were high above him; and he wanted her to like him, even if she did scare him. “I’m fine. I–”

“Lancel!” Robert called, his voice booming over Gendry’s meek one. Seven hells, when did he turn so meek anyways? When had he ever been like that before? It was stupid – but this was the King and Queen. “Lancel! Where is that bloody fool?” As if having not known he was called for until he’d been called a fool, Ser Lancel Lannister, his father’s squire, appeared at the table, already holding a pitcher filled with more wine. “Give my son more wine. And fill up my cup while you’re at it. I doubt you’ll know to show your face again. You’re never here when I need you anyways.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Lancel said stiffly.

“Oh, no, I don’t need–” Gendry couldn’t even finish his sentence before Lancel had filled up his cup again and started on the King’s. Gendry felt bad for him, but he did have to hand it to Lancel: while he was constantly assaulted with insults from the King and would turn red and stutter sometimes, he never once snapped back or looked angry or upset. Gendry didn’t think he’d be able to handle such verbal abuse, even if it did come from the king or his father. He’d just shut down completely. _I best never anger him then._

“How come Gendry gets a second cup of wine and I don’t?” Joffrey demanded, sounding accusing and hurt. Never once did Joffrey ever seem to want more than one glass of wine and besides, his mother wouldn’t allow it. Normally, Gendry was able to sip on his one glass and make it last throughout dinner, but he’d been so parched after all his lessons today. He’d forgotten to drink as much water throughout the day.

King Robert took a large gulp from his wine and sat his cup down on the table hard. “You’re too young. Gendry is older than you.”

“Only by two years,” Joffrey countered, and then, throwing Gendry a heated glare, he added, “Besides, I’m the heir to the throne. I’m above him. I should get more than he does.”

“That’s absurd,” his father snorted. “You’re both princes. When you’re as old as Gendry, you can have as much wine as you want. Now stop _whining._ ”

Gendry made the stupid mistake of holding out his cup and offering it to Joffrey. “If you really want more, you can have mine. I’m fine, really; I don’t need a second cup.”

“I don’t want _your_ cup!” Joffrey snapped, scooting away from him and looking at the cup as if it was filled with blood. Gendry slowly pulled his hand back and held the cup close to him. “It’s filled with your _bastard_ germs!”

Robert slammed his fists down hard on the table. All the plates rattled and the table shook, making both Myrcella and Tommen jump back away from the table in surprise. “He is not a bastard!”

“It’s fine, Father,” Gendry tried to say weakly. He didn’t care what they called him. He really didn’t. He’d been called a bastard his entire life; it wouldn’t hurt him now even if they tried. “It’s fine…”

“Then what is he?” Cersei asked coldly, completely ignoring him. “I do not remember him passing through _my_ womb.”

“He is my son! He is a Baratheon! And he is a prince!”

 “He can’t write; he can’t read; he can’t do sums; he can’t do anything,” the Queen accused. “What kind of prince is that? It’s _embarrassing_.”

Gendry saw the way his father’s fists clenched on the table, how he seemed to stop breathing, the way he went silent and stared at his wife from across the table with an equally venomous look. He’d seen that look in many men’s eyes right before they did something incredibly stupid and attacked someone on the streets. But this wasn’t on the streets. This was in the Red Keep, the castle. This was his family. He’d seen men treat women badly, when he’d been younger than Tommen, when his mother had still been alive and working in an alehouse. _“Never treat a lady badly,”_ he could still remember his mother saying. Or maybe it had been one of her friends that had helped raise him in his early years. He could never remember.

“Speak like that one more time, woman, or so help me…”

“So help you what?” the Queen replied, a sneer on her face. “What will you do? Slap me? In front of the children?”

Gendry felt the urge to take the pitcher of wine and down the entire thing in one gulp.

Robert raised a fist. “You test me and my ruling too much!”

Without warning, Gendry jumped to his feet, so fast that he nearly tumbled back down into his seat. Still, the action startled his father and the Queen out of their argument and everyone turned their eyes upon him. Immediately, he regretted the action and felt the urge to sit back down and hide in his seat, but he could no longer do that. Someone had to do something. “I’m finished with supper. I’m going to..to…” He didn’t know where he was going to; he didn’t know where he wanted to go. He hadn’t even thought of that before standing up. All he’d wanted to do was end their arguing. He hated that it had started over him in the first place. “I’m going to read.” Read? Really? That was what he came up with. He tried not to cringe, even when he saw Joffrey smirk out of the corner of his eyes. “Would you like to join me, Princess Myrcella? Prince Tommen? Lord Renly said both of you picked up reading at an early age; and I could…” Don’t cringe; don’t cringe; just be honest. “I could use the company. It’s more fun with other people, right?”

Myrcella’s smile was as bright as her hair. “That would be fun, Gendry.”

“Can we play games too?” Tommen asked. “Myrcella is the one that likes to read.”

“Of course, any games you all want to play.” All children played the same games, when it came down to it. He might not have been a child anymore and they might have been half his age, but they were sweet and nice. And honestly, he just didn’t want them to have to witness their parents arguing like this. It frustrated him to see them so upset and crowed.

Both children had started to get out of their seats and he’d started for the door when the Queen said, “Myrcella, Tommen, I do not think I excused you.” When Gendry looked back though, she was not looking at her children but glaring at him. To his credit, this time, he stared back. A mother should want her children to be away when things like this occurred. His mother had tried, shutting the door on him whenever a visitor came over and whenever she got into an argument, but it hadn’t been enough. Gods, he wished Renly and Stannis were here. Neither his father nor the Queen would have argued like this with them around and Renly would have made jokes and they would’ve laughed and had fun. Why couldn’t it just be them? Maybe things like this wouldn’t happen nearly as much when the Starks arrived.

“They can go play with their brother,” his father said, looking up. There was a strange look on King Robert’s face; Gendry couldn’t tell if it was a look of shame, anger, or exhaustion, but it was something. He probably hadn’t liked being interrupted by Gendry, but it had been the only way. “Go on, children; you’re excused.”

Gendry bowed awkwardly to them and then turned and stalked out of the room, Myrcella and Tommen on his heels. He headed in the direction where he knew where the books and games were, so that they’d be able to pick whatever they wanted to do. At this rate, he’d do anything. His whole body was brimming with energy. Mostly, he wanted to go to the armory, grab a tourney sword, and beat a target so hard that all the straw came out and he was covered in sweat and he was shaking. Even more so, he just wanted to go into the forge, pick up a hammer, and beat any metal flat. But he couldn’t do that anymore. He was a prince now, not a blacksmith’s apprentice.

When they were halfway to the room, he felt a presence at his side and a soft hand slide into his rough one. He looked down and saw that Myrcella had taken hold of his hand and was walking quickly next to him, to keep up with his long strides. Tommen was hurrying next to her. Immediately he began to slow down, so that they wouldn’t have to nearly run. His whole body relaxed then. All of a sudden, he didn’t feel so frustrated; in fact, a small smile perked at his lips and he felt lighter than he had the entire month.

 


	3. Many Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks arrive at King's Landing and Gendry is stressed to the bone.

Gendry couldn’t help but fidget as he stood next to his father. Though he’d tried to secure a spot next to his Uncle Renly, his father had put a hand on his shoulder and pulled Gendry back next to him. The Queen stood on his father’s other side, occasionally shooting Gendry a cold glare, while Joffrey stood next to him, not even bothering to hide his hateful glares. Gendry wasn’t stupid. He knew that Joffrey should be the one standing next to the king, considering that he was the crowned prince, but that just hadn’t been the way things worked out.

“I can’t wait to show you off to Ned,” his father had said, a broad grin on his face. “It will shock him to see how much we look alike.”

The queen hadn’t liked that one bit. She’d started fuming even more than before, which Gendry hadn’t thought possible.

“Your dress looks very beautiful, Your Grace,” Gendry said, thinking about all the courtesies that Lord Renly had taught him. People liked getting compliments, especially women. Right? All everyone seemed to do around here was compliment each other on this or that and tell one another that their new clothes looked nice. And the queen did look very beautiful, even if she looked a bit terrifying as well.

Cersei Lannister’s lip curled for a moment, like she might smile or sneer, but then it went flat again and her eyes flickered away from him. Gendry couldn’t tell if that had been a success or a failure on his part, most likely the latter. No matter what he did, no matter how well he improved in the things everyone was teaching him, no matter how much Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen seemed to adore him, the queen loathed him.

 _“You cannot win everyone over,”_ was what his Uncle Renly would say, but that didn’t make Gendry feel any better.

He could tell how excited his father was. From what he’d heard from his uncles and his father, Lord Eddard Stark was his father’s oldest friend. They had been fostered together in the Vale under the watchful eye of Lord Arryn. They’d grown up together in their formative years, learned how to fight together, gone out and whored together. Or, well, his father had done the whoring while young Lord Stark had teetered about nervously. ( _“He blushed about as much as you whenever a girl came up to him,”_ his father laughed the other night.) When Lord Stark’s father and brother had been killed by the Mad King and their heads had been called for, they’d gone to war together. They had fought for one another. Lord Stark was his most loyal man and would be the Hand of the King.

Part of Gendry had wanted to ask his father why he had not asked either of his brothers to be his Hand. His Uncle Stannis was one of the toughest and bravest men that Gendry had ever met. The lord would’ve been a more than capable Hand of the King. Why had his father felt the need to call on someone that lived so far away in the comfort of the North when he had good men, good brothers, here? Maybe it would’ve looked bad to have both a Baratheon king and Baratheon Hand. Maybe they needed new blood in their council. Gendry didn’t really know how any of that worked. It wasn’t yet in his lessons. He knew the basics of the small council and how the kingdom was ruled, but he hadn’t asked many questions on the matter.

The van was close now. A few horses were starting to trickle in, the front of the guard that protected the important people in the middle. Gendry could feel his father brimming with excitement; he could also tell that Cersei Lannister was not one bit pleased at this incursion of Starks. No one talked about just why she was so angry with the king, but Gendry knew. He’d stumbled across them arguing more viciously than usual about two weeks ago. She was apparently furious with him for not asking her father, Lord Tywin Lannister, to be the Hand of the King, especially since he’d served so well during the Aerys’ reign.

 _“He also betrayed Aerys, sacking this city, and had his son stab Aerys in the back, if you remember,”_ his father had snarled behind the closed door of their bedchamber. _“I trust your father as much as I can, but I know for a fact that Ned will never betray my trust.”_

The Queen had screamed at him for that, maybe even slapped him, and then there had been a cold silence between them for the week after. It hadn’t seemed to faze any of the children much, as if they were used to such childish and terrible behavior between their parents. Gendry had felt more than despaired about this fact, seeing as how he’d always longed for parents. Now that he had them, or at least a father, he’d come to find that it wasn’t really much of a family. He preferred spending his time with his uncles, even Lord Stannis, and his younger half-siblings, despite the large age difference.

A man rode up to them on a powerful steed. Though there was nothing about his appearance to suggest anything, except for a somber look, and Gendry had never seen or met the man before, Gendry could immediately tell that he was a high lord. He knew almost instantaneously that he was finally looking at Lord Eddard Stark, lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, soon-to-be Hand of the King. Gendry felt panic grip his heart in his chest, making it pound furiously. So far, he’d seemed to live up to most of his new family’s expectations, but it would be another to live up to others’. He found it more difficult to please other people. He knew what his uncles and father wanted from him, for the most part, but he could never tell what other people wanted. It always seemed to change on him.

And then there were Lord Stark’s daughters. What the hell was he supposed to do with _them_?

The man, Lord Stark, swooped down from his horse with ease, as if riding came to him as easily as walking (would that Gendry had that ease), and almost immediately went to his knee before the king. “Your Grace.” His voice was deep, like timbre, like the weirwood trees that Gendry was told filled up the North. They had one godswood in the Red Keep, but he’d never really known what to do with it. The man looked to the Queen, still on one knee and nodded his head to her as well. “My Queen.”

“Oh, get up, you bloody fool,” his father said, sounding nothing like the king he was dressed up as. His father had a love for taking a piss on all kingly duties and acted as such. Gendry was almost certain that he could hear his Uncle Stannis grinding his teeth in response. Lord Stark rose on command. Here was a lord, a true ruler. Despite the fact that he looked fairly average, Gendry saw power behind his grey eyes.

 _It’s the North,_ Gendry thought to himself. _It hardens anyone._

Though he had seen one winter, he knew that he was a summer child. He wondered if any Northerners were summer children or if they were all children of winter deep down. He bet Starks were always the latter.

“It’s been too long, Ned,” his father said, his face breaking into a grin. Even Lord Stark returned the smile, his face warming up slowly, as if the coldness of the North was melting off of him in the summer heat and light of seeing his oldest friend. “Would that you didn’t live so bloody far away.”

“You installed me to keep peace in the North,” Lord Stark replied. “Of course, if you were perhaps not too fat to ride a horse…”

The bluntness of his words startled Gendry and the Queen harrumphed on the king’s other side, but his father only laughed. “Bastard, still, I see.” The two of them embraced in a clap of a hug. It was gruff and hard, but when his father pulled away, Gendry saw something startling in his blue eye: a look of longing, nostalgia, relief, and happiness.

For not the first time, Gendry couldn’t help but think of how lonely being a king must be. Just being a prince made him feel more cast off than being an orphan and a bastard. When he’d been a bastard orphan, he’d had all the children of the streets to keep him company; and even when he’d been alone, in the forge or in his cot at night, he hadn’t really felt alone. He could always sneak out and get into mischief with the other children. Now that he was a prince though, he couldn’t do any of that and there wasn’t really anyone his age that he could be around, besides Joffrey and some of the men and ladies’ of the courts children that came every now and then. Most of the time though, he was either alone or in the company of his family or maesters, which made for a strange and lonely time.

“Where are your children?” his father asked.

“Ah, they are coming up in the carriage near the back,” Lord Stark said, looking somewhat embarrassed. “We had a few…spats between them, so I had to calm them down. None of them have ever traveled this far out of Winterfell. They’ve grown restless during the trip, even my second son, Bran.”

“They’re children,” his father stated, almost approvingly, as if children having spats was the right thing in the world. That certainly answered a lot of questions when it came to all the fights that Joffrey provoked with Myrcella and Tommen and now Gendry. “We’ll have a bit of fun for them to ease their nerves. In the meantime, I can show you my children, since you were too buggered to come up during their births.”

Gendry couldn’t help but be struck by how seemingly rude they were to one another, or at least how rude his father was to Lord Stark, but it all seemed to be done in warmth and fondness. His father never acted this way with anyone. For the most part, he tried to be kingly. The closest he ever got to this was when he was with his brothers, but he was always so terse with Stannis, teasing him, and flippant with Renly, since he was so young still.

And that was when Gendry felt his father’s hands on his shoulders and realized that his father had just said that he was going to show off his children – starting with _him_.

He felt incredibly sick to his stomach all of a sudden, but did his damnedest to not look like it. Still, he panicked when he realized he didn’t know what type of facial expression he should use or if he should bend the knee or bow or shake Lord Stark’s hand or-or—

“This is my newest addition, Gendry, the oldest now,” his father said, somewhat teasingly. He squeezed Gendry’s shoulders again, trying to perhaps calm him down, but it only made him feel more nervous.

“My lord,” Gendry greeted, still teetering between bowing and just standing there awkwardly.

The way that Lord Stark looked at him was…terribly peculiar (that was a new word he’d learned). It was a distant, foggy look, like he’d seen someone from his past. It was something of the same look he’d worn when he’d first laid eyes on Robert Baratheon. Instead, this time, it looked like he was recalling a face from a dream that he hadn’t had in a long time. It wasn’t a look of disgust or loathing. Gendry could vaguely remember something about how Lord Stark had a bastard son of his own that he’d raised alongside his trueborn children, something almost unheard of. Still, it was strange though and somewhat unsettling, for the both of them.

Lord Stark didn’t look away, his grey eyes locked onto Gendry’s obviously Baratheon blue ones; and to be honest, Gendry didn’t want to look like a wimp, so he didn’t look away either. “He looks…”

“Just like me when I was his age, I know,” his father said proudly. “When I first laid eyes on him, it was like looking at a walking painting. You should see him with a hammer, Ned. He worked in a forge, but Stannis is teaching him how to really fight, and he swings it like I did.”

“He looks more like the you that I remember than you do now,” Lord Stark pointed out.

His father laughed again. “That’s what happens when you become king, Ned. You get to eat and drink whatever you want and no one wants to fight.” He smoothed down Gendry’s hair, as if he was a child of Tommen’s age, the same thick, black hair that his father and Uncle Renly had. “The Seven knows I’ve got more bastards running around out there, but when I looked at him, Ned… I knew he had to be a Baratheon. I knew it.”

Lord Stark smiled a bit, just ever so slightly. Gendry tore his eyes away from Lord Stark and glanced up at his father. It was the first time Gendry had heard him talk whatsoever about why he’d been legitimized in the first place. Whenever Gendry had tried to broach the subject, his father would just wave him away or tell him that he should be grateful. Mostly he just said that Gendry was a true Baratheon in blood. ( _“You look more Baratheon than Renly, that pansy sot,”_ his father had muttered one night while heavy into his cups, _“more Baratheon than those three golden-haired children that witch gave me…”_ ) He was horribly curious, but he knew that he would not get the chance to talk to his father about it. Neither Lord Renly nor Lord Stannis would tell him either; they always said that it had been his father’s decision and he hadn’t told them much either.

His father’s hands left his shoulders as the man moved on to introduce his other son, the crowned prince. Glancing over slightly, Gendry saw the way that Joffrey stood up straight. He wore a genial look, but one that spoke of pride. It looked strange on his face, nothing more than a mask to show off to his father’s friend. When he looked at Myrcella, who had also been watching Joffrey, Gendry connected eyes with her and she rolled her eyes in response, causing him to grin a little. She knew that Joffrey was playing a farce as well. He turned his head away and out of the corner of his eye saw that the Queen was looking at him again. When he faced her, filled with at least a little hope that hearing his father say that Joffrey was to be king after him would soften her, he was dismayed to find that she was glaring at him again.

Cersei Lannister turned her head to look straight ahead and watch the arrival of the Stark household and its men. “You may be the oldest,” she said in a low voice that only he could hear, “but Joffrey will always be the first.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Gendry replied, looking away from her and clenching his jaw tightly together. He saw her look at him sharply, but he refused to look at her again. His heart was jamming wildly in his chest. That had been rude – he should’ve just kept quiet – but he hated letting people walk all over again, especially if they did it all the time. He was a damn prince now, not some common lowborn bastard. He was a highborn now, just as much as she was.

“Let us go inside!” his father suddenly announced. “You, your men, and your children must be famished from the ride. You could probably do for a drink as well.”

Lord Stark waved to a man with a scar over one eye. The man walked up to him dutifully. “Make sure that Sansa, Arya, and Bran are brought to the hall when the carriage arrives. I can see it now, but if they’re still fighting…”

“I’ll make sure they stop, m’lord, at least long enough to be presentable to His Grace,” the man responded before walking back to his horse and swinging up on it. He rode to a carriage that was in the back of the line.

Most of the Stark men had arrived and were working with servants from the Red Keep. The moving in was in full swing. The actual feast wouldn’t be until tomorrow night, so that the Starks had time to rest and recover after their long journey from Winterfell, but any excuse his father could find to drink and eat a lot was not unused. Seeing his best friend for the first time in nearly ten years was certainly cause for that. Once the King and Lord Stark started to walk into the Red Keep, everyone else followed. The Queen went first, tended to by a pretty lady from the court, with Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella following. Gendry waited back a bit so that he could walk with his uncles.

“You did well,” his Uncle Renly proclaimed, clapping him on the shoulders, as they walked together. Gendry glanced at his Uncle Stannis, but the older man said nothing, his jaw clenched tightly. “Did you see the look on Cersei’s face? She looked fit to murder someone.”

“That woman is poison,” Stannis muttered under his breath.

Renly smiled a little. “I feel like I’m taking the words out of our dear brother’s mouth, but – Stannis, aren’t _all_ women poison to you?”

That only earned Renly a glare from Stannis and the older man stormed off into the castle ahead of them, leaving Gendry alone with Renly. His young uncle laughed, sounding very much like the young man that he was. Gendry had to remind himself that Renly was only twenty and one, just seven years Gendry’s senior.

The two of them made their way into the castle with Renly chattering the entire way about House Stark. Gendry had been learning more about the great Houses of Westeros, but the maesters could not tell him anything, especially not the little things. Renly was able to fill in the blanks, explaining to him the old gods of the North and about the Wall. Gendry found the Wall the most intriguing, but Renly didn’t seem to care much for it, seeing as how it wasn’t nearly as glamorous anymore, and only mentioned it briefly. They continued talking – or rather, Gendry continued listening – even as they sat down and the welcoming feast began.

When the doors opened, Gendry was expecting some more servants (there seemed to be a never-ending amount of servants in the Red Keep), but was surprised to see the man that Lord Stark had commanded to bring his children, along with the three children that Gendry guessed to be Lord Stark’s. The oldest girl and the boy looked more similar to each other, but the younger girl looked very much like her father. The blood of House Stark ran deep in that one. She looked even more like her father because of the sour look on her face, as if she already cared very little for this place and missed home. When the boy nudged her in the side, she smiled at him though; and he smiled in return.

Lord Stark stood up to greet them. Gendry watched with amusement as the younger daughter started forward, probably to hug her father, but the older daughter held her back by the wrist and whispered something in her ear. It only made the young girl stick her tongue out, but she hung back. Clearly this girl didn’t really understand how the court went either. Gendry recalled something about his father saying that he’d probably get along well with the younger daughter since he didn’t much like the court. Once the three children reached the table where the king sat and Lord Stark was with them, the other man bowed and then left, leaving the highborns together.

Just a little over a month ago, he wouldn’t have even been allowed to see the arrival of these people.

“Your Grace,” Lord Stark said as he walked over to them, “these are my children.”

“Late?” The king laughed. “That is not like you at all, Ned.”

“Pardons, Your Grace,” the oldest daughter said, curtseying gracefully. She turned to their father. “It was Arya’s fault, Father. She left the carriage to go exploring ahead and–”

“Later, Sansa,” Lord Stark sighed. It was like he was already tired of the children’s antics; and they’d just arrived. “This is Sansa, my oldest daughter; Arya, my youngest daughter; and Bran, my second son.”

The king waved at them all. “Come, sit, sit. You all must be hungry and tired from the journey.”

As the children walked up to the table to sit with them, Gendry watched them look around for spots. Right as they reached the tables, Joffrey jumped from his seat and pulled out a chair. “Here you are, my lady,” he said to Sansa, offering her the chair.

When Sansa smiled, it was so earnest and pretty. “Thank you, my prince,” she replied in a shy voice. She sat down with such grace that Gendry was sure that she had been born with it. They were still in their more Northern-styled dresses, which he figured made it more difficult. He didn’t really know. All the clothing that highborns wore made moving around difficult and more restricted.

“Uh…” Gendry scratched his head and then stood up as well, taking cue from Joffrey. He held out a chair for the younger daughter. “Here’s a seat for you, my lady.”

“I’m not a lady, you dolt,” the girl, Arya, replied.

Well, all Gendry could really do in response to that was blink and gape back at her stupidly. “ _What_?”

“Oh, do be nice, Arya,” Sansa pleaded. “He’s a _prince_. You can’t talk to him like you talk to everyone else.”

Arya merely rolled her eyes in response, which only made Sansa huff. It appeared as if it really didn’t matter whether Gendry was a prince of not. A part of him felt slightly affronted that she had acted so rudely with him, but another part, a larger part that he tried to hide so hard, felt pleased to be treated so normally. With the exception of the Queen and Joffrey, everyone was always so nice to him to his face, even if he was sure they didn’t like him. This girl, however, clearly did not care about things like that.

The boy Bran laughed and plopped down in the seat that Gendry had originally offered to Arya. “Don’t mind her, my prince. Arya is simply moody from having not slept well on the trip.”

“If Sansa hadn’t been too busy gushing about meeting the princes,” Arya muttered under her breath as she sat down next to her brother. She cast Gendry a sideways glance, sizing him up. It made him feel a little awkward, so he sank back into his chair. “My apologies.”

“Er, you’re – well, you’re…pardoned, I suppose.”

Arya was still looking at him when her eyes narrowed. “What kind of prince _are_ you?”

“Oh, Arya!” Sansa gasped. At her side, Joffrey was wearing one of his trademark shit eating grins, clearly getting a kick out of the whole situation. Of course he would though. No one was good at making Gendry feel like a bad excuse for a prince more than Joffrey, if only because Joffrey was so good at being princely. Renly assured Gendry that he would grow into the role, but it was hard.

Gendry rubbed the back of his head. “Not a very good prince, most like.”

“You’re the bastard one then, right?” Arya asked as she stabbed a potato with a fork.

“You can’t just ask things like that!” Sansa reprimanded, sounding positively horrified. She had every right to be, Gendry knew. From what he’d learned about etiquette and all that other stuff, Arya was not acting anywhere near proper. She shouldn’t have been talking to a prince like this. Had she been talking to Joffrey like that, he would’ve flown off the handle and complained to his mother about her already. “I really am sorry for her, my prince.”

“It’s alright, m’-my lady,” Gendry said, a little, embarrassed smile on his face. “I’ve been called much worse.” Sansa seemed a little relieved at that, though she shot her sister a despairing look. “I guess you could say that though. I mean, I _was_ a bastard before the king legitimized me. There’s no denying that.”

“Still acts like one too,” Joffrey cut in. “He can’t even read or write.”

Despite himself, Gendry flushed as all three Stark children looked at him. “That’s not – that’s not true. I can a little. I’m, ah, learning. Lord Renly, my uncle, says I’m a fast learner though.”

“Reading and writing are a lot more difficult than people give it credit for,” Bran spoke up, not bothering to look back at Joffrey who looked a little displeased that his joke wasn’t being enjoyed. Gendry felt a wave of gratefulness towards this young boy though he did not know him. “We were all raised to read and write so it feels easy to us. It’s a lot harder to pick up when you’re older though.”

More food came and all of them became more involved with eating. Gendry found that he wasn’t that hungry, his thoughts still running around what Joffrey had said. The Stark children were famished, though Sansa was a lot more proper about eating than her younger siblings. Arya and Bran laughed with one another as Sansa became involved in a conversation about something with Joffrey, though it was more him talking and her listening. Gendry folded in on himself, like he almost always did during family dinners. It was when he felt like he belonged the least. This wasn’t his family. He wasn’t of royal blood. But then it was and he was.

What Joffrey had said was right though. Gendry may have had the title of prince and Baratheon now, but he was still very much a bastard at heart.

A hand was laid on his; and when he looked over, he saw Myrcella smiling up at him. “Don’t let his cruel words bother you, Gendry,” she told him. “He only mocks you because he is jealous.”

“Jealous?” Gendry shook his head. “Why would he be jealous of _me_? I’m still a bastard. And it’ll take me ages before I get to the level that you or even Tommen are at with reading and writing.”

“Because you are a true and earnest prince and he is not,” Myrcella told him. “It takes more than being able to read, write, smile, and act proper to be a prince. You are a good person, Gendry. People naturally like you. That is hard to come by in royalty.”

His chest felt warm, as it always did when he was with his youngest half-siblings. He knew that many people thought that Myrcella was childish and that she wasn’t smart, but he knew different. She hid a very bright mind behind that sweet smile. His uncles Renly and Stannis were all doing their best to help him to be a better prince and his father was his father, but Myrcella and Tommen never expected him to improve; they just seemed to adore him with no questions. That was what family truly meant.

Gendry looked around the room, watching people eat and talk and laugh. His father was having a loud and animated conversation with Lord Stark about a glorious battle they had been in together when they had been younger, reliving his youth back when he had looked just like Gendry. The Queen was at his side, glowering and silent, like a beautiful statue. (His father ignored his wife too much. That had to be it. If he was just kinder to her…) Joffrey and Sansa were still locked in a conversation, her listening raptly. Bran was now talking to Tommen about their shared hatred of beets, of all things.

“What did you do before the king legitimized you?” Arya Stark asked suddenly, pulling him out of his people watching.

“I was a smith’s apprentice.” Just saying the words made him think of the forge, its heat, the smells, and he missed it all.

“So you must be good with a warhammer, like the king was,” Arya replied. “Father says that’s what the king used during the Rebellion.”

Gendry shrugged his shoulders. “I’m alright. Lord Stannis is teaching me. He’s not the normal Master-at-Arms, but my father decided to put both my uncles in charge of my different lessons.” He gave her a crooked grin. “There are a lot of lessons when it comes to learning how to be a prince.”

“Well you’ve got a lot of learning to do.”

Even though it was an insult, Gendry couldn’t help but laugh. “And you’re clearly still learning how to be a lady.”

He had been dreading the arrival of the Starks ever since his father had told him about it over a month ago, but now that they were here, well, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe this was exactly what King’s Landing needed: some fresh, new blood that didn’t act like the stuck up prigs here. When he glanced over at his uncles, he saw that Lord Renly was smiling and nodding his head. Perhaps he could make his father and uncles proud after all.


	4. Growing Comfortable

It had been a week since the Starks had arrived in King’s Landing; and there was no longer any chance to avoid the coming embarrassment. A proper celebration was being held tomorrow in the honor of Eddard Stark being named Hand of the King. Not only was there going to be a tournament, but there would also be a feast where there would be dancing and singing and jesters from all the land. King Robert Baratheon did not waste any expense on his best friend, though it fully appeared as if Lord Stark would have preferred a simple ceremony with only the small council to see.

All in all, while most of the people were excited about the celebration, there were a few set of people that Gendry wasn’t sure who were looking least forward to this whole affair: Lord Stark, Cersei Lannister, his uncle Stannis, or Gendry. The queen seemed to despise the Starks on basic principal, though she did her best to hide behind pleasantries. The only problem was that she couldn’t stop herself from making cutting backhanded remarks or shooting glares at Lord Stark from across the room. Every time Gendry caught her eyes afterwards, she’d glare at him so heatedly that he’d turn bright red and look away in embarrassment. He didn’t like being privy to the queen’s feelings, but she couldn’t seem to hide them for now.

When Gendry asked his uncle Renly why Stannis had taken to himself for the past week, Renly merely sighed. “Do not mind your uncle,” he said, “the idea of celebrating anything makes him ill. I am not so certain he takes joy in anything.”

“I think he takes joy in wholloping me upside the head during training,” Gendry muttered, which made Renly guffaw as loud as his father did when he was too drunk.

Lord Stark’s youngest daughter, Arya, appeared somewhat sour at the concept of dancing and singing, but she was excited about the tournament. He stumbled across her randomly in one of the many courtyards while on his way back from training with Stannis. She was waving a stick around like he had been waving a sword around an hour ago. Both of them halted immediately when they caught sight of one another.

Normally Gendry would have simply nodded to her, muttered “my lady,” and scuttled away before she could throw the stick at him, but he was too tired from having dealt with two hours’ worth of berating and beating from Stannis. “What in the seven hells are you doing?”

“I’m practicing,” Arya Stark replied defensively.

“For what? The tournament?” Gendry wiped the sweat off his face. “You’d get killed.”

“I would not!”

“You’re tiny. One hit and you’d be cut clean in half.”

For a moment, Arya looked as if she wanted to hit him with the stick as much as she could. The tournament was the only thing she was excited about, he knew. While her sister Sansa was elated with the prospect of dancing and seeing singers and other court entertainment from all over Westeros and even her brother Bran was intrigued, Arya was not so pleased, much like her father. It wasn’t fair of Gendry to sour this for her, but he was so tired. Stannis had gotten harder with him in the past week during their sessions, to the point where Gendry felt in pain even when he laid still in bed.

And then, she bit her lip and dropped the stick to her side, looking like a child. “Do you practice every day with Lord Stannis?” she asked.

“Every day, for usually an hour or so,” Gendry answered, “except my uncle thought it best that we start practicing longer up until the tournament so I will know what I’m actually watching.”

“I wish I had a master-at-arms that could teach me.” There was not only jealousy on her face, but a strange sort of pain as well. It was something that he recognized all too well. It was the pain of wanting something that you could not have. As an orphan and a bastard child, he had worn that face all too often while growing up on the streets of King’s Landing. The simple pain of wanting a father that would ruffle his hair, proclaim his pride, or a mother that would clean up a cut on his knee. Everyone wanted a life that they could not have at some point. Except while she would never fully be able to have what she wanted because of her gender, he had somehow miraculously gotten what he’d wished for. A bastard orphan with a family.

Gendry cleared his throat. “It’s not so great.” He lifted up his tunic to show a nice blossoming bruise on his side. “I can’t even sleep on this side without it hurting.”

Arya stepped close to him, warily, looking at the bruise with intent fascination. “What happened?”

“Well, we use tourney swords to practice, so no one really gets injured,” Gendry explained, looking at the sky and thinking back to the memory. “My uncle was trying to teach me how to, uh, well, how to stop an aggressive attack – but I wasn’t paying attention. I was tired. I’d been up all night reading, you know, or well trying to read – and we wear armor so we don’t get injured, but even then, he wacked me real hard with the flat of the sword and– Oy, that hurts!”

Gendry jumped away from her hands, which had suddenly prodded his bruise. He jerked his shirt down and glowered at her, but she just shrugged her shoulders, uncaring about what she’d done. Her hands had been cold against his skin. All of a sudden, the situation hit him upside the head. He’d been pulling his shirt up around a lady and she’d had her hands on him. How improper that might have looked to anyone else, even though it had been innocent. His face turned bright red in that moment and he just gaped at her for a second.

“I’ve – I’ve got to go. I’ve got lessons with my uncle Renly now.”

Arya folded her arms across her chest. “What kind of lessons?”

He certainly didn’t want to tell her, but he couldn’t think up a good lie either. “Dancing.”

“Eugh.” Arya made a face, showing him exactly what she thought of dancing. “You better clean up first. You _smell_ and you don’t want to insult any girl you dance with for smelling bad.”

“I don’t–” Except he did. After stumbling about in armor and trying to fend off Lord Stannis’s attacks for two hours in the hot sun, Gendry was sure that he more than smelled bad. There was a little, triumphant smirk on Arya’s face. Gendry forced a stony expression on his own. “I will see you at supper, my lady. Have fun practicing with that stick.”

And then he was off, hurrying back into the castle so he could bathe quickly as possible and get to the dancing lesson. He was so much better at wielding a warhammer and sword than dancing, but it would only be his dancing that he would be judged on at the feast.

* * *

After an abysmal dancing lesson that had involved him accidentally stepping on a girl’s dress and causing her to fall on her face, Gendry retired to his bedchambers and threw himself onto his bed. He lay face first on the soft mattress and put all the pillows he could find over his head in hopes that they would smother him should he be able to fall asleep. Then no one would be forced to deal with him anymore. He would never shame his father for being a terrible excuse for a prince; he’d never have to have Lord Renly apologize profusely to the girl who he’d accidentally injured; he would never disappoint Lord Stannis for not being able to remember the simplest of maneuvers with a sword or the terms for a ship. He would never embarrass anyone for the fact that despite all his studying he could barely read a child’s book still. His father would never have to regret legitimizing him.

A timid knock on his door jerked him out of his moody thoughts.

“What?” he called, his voice muffled under the mountain of pillows.

“It’s your sister,” the person replied. “May I come in, Gendry?”

He wanted so hard to tell her off, to send her away, to shout at her to leave him be, but he couldn’t do that to her. If it had been anyone but her at the door, even his father perhaps at this point, he would have ignored them or yelled at them to leave him alone, like some petulant child, but he couldn’t with Myrcella. She was too kind to him, too unendingly sweet, despite his failings.

“You can come in.”

He heard the door open and shut with a squeak, then the soft padding of feet across the room. He didn’t even bother to move or pull his head out from underneath the pillows when he felt her sit on the bed next to him.

After a moment of stillness, she said, “I heard about what happened during your dancing lesson.”

“Come to mock me then?”

“Gendry,” and it was all she had to say in that hurt, little voice of hers. Just the way she said his name, like he’d struck her in the face as their father did her mother, and it was enough to pull him out of whatever pity cloud he’d been hiding in. He knocked the pillows off his head and sat up, giving her a pathetic look. “I would never do that.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just–” Gendry took a deep breath and looked down. He moved around so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed next to her. She was so small compared to him, her feet dangling off the side of bed while his touched the floor. He forgot how young she was, how she was just a child, but so much smarter than him at the same time. “I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but I didn’t think it would be this frustrating either. I just don’t want to embarrass our father or make him regret his decision.”

“Oh, Gendry, he would _never_ feel like that. Father is very proud of you – and he loves you, just as Tommen and I do.” Myrcella grasped one of his big hands in her tiny small smalls. She was so delicate, like a golden-haired doll. Her mother dressed her in such pretty gowns. When she was older, Gendry knew that suitors from all over Westeros would fight for her. She smiled at him, so earnest and open; and he knew in that moment that he would protect her from any boy or man that treated her badly. No man would ever treat her as their father treated her mother. Should any man strike her or make her cry, he would kill them.

Gendry smiled at her. “You’re already too smart. Did you know that? How is that you can always make me feel better with just words?”

“A princess must be pleasing with words and kind in her demeanor,” Myrcella replied, sounding as if she was reciting something that a septa might have told her. It certainly hadn’t come from the queen. The little smile on her face faltered suddenly though and she leaned her head against his arm. The action startled him and he glanced down at her. “I know this must be terribly difficult for you and I know it disheartens you, but I… I am so glad that you are here.”

His brow furrowed. “Is everything okay?”

When Myrcella tilted her head to look up at him, there was a shiny film of tears over her bright Lannister green eyes. “We never talk about it. No one ever talks about it – how unhappy Father and Mother are, how cruel Joffrey is, how Mother still favors Joffrey over Tommen and me and both our parents only pays attention to us when we do something wrong…”

“Now that’s not true,” Gendry started.

“No, but it is,” Myrcella replied, her lips trembling ever so slightly. “Mother loves us, I’m sure, but… Joffrey is the crowned prince. He’s all that matters in her eyes. And there are nights when I could hear Father and Mother _roaring_ at each other from the other side of the castle.”

Gendry scratched the back of his head. “Are you sure they don’t do that even more now? The Queen is still unhappy with my legitimization.”

“Who cares what she thinks?” Myrcella bit back, startling Gendry even further. He had never once heard her say anything bad about her mother, not one word out of place. She was always kind to everyone around her, even the people that were unkind to her. This time though, she sounded very much like the King, who had assured Gendry that the Queen’s concerns mattered not. “ _I_ am happy that you were, and so is Tommen. You… You’re the big brother that Joffrey should have been. You’re the big brother that I always wanted. He doesn’t bully us anymore when you’re around. You actually play and talk with us. I don’t… I don’t feel so alone or scared now that you’re here.”

Gods, she looked so much like a child in that moment. She was young, scared, just a little girl, not just a princess. Gendry pulled her into a tight hug and she wrapped her arms around him as much as she could. He kissed the top of her head. “And you’re the best little sister anyone could ask for. I’d be miserable if it weren’t for you and Tommen.”

“Just don’t ever think that you’re not loved,” Myrcella mumbled into his shirt, sniffling a little. He could feel her smile against him. “No one else would ever just sit and let me read to them for hours until the sun comes up.”

“You’re the best reader I know,” Gendry proclaimed. “What better way to learn than from the master?”

As they continued to talk, the despairing feelings that had overwhelmed Gendry just an hour before began to fade away into existence. He might not have been able to be the greatest prince that Westeros had ever seen, but he could be the best big brother possible. Myrcella’s pride in him meant more than anything else in the world right now. How could he ever want to go back to his old life in the forge if it meant never knowing his little sister or the pure love that someone might have for him? He may have been unsure and insecure about his father’s love for him, but he would always be sure of hers. If she thought that she had been alone before him, then she could not comprehend how alone he would have felt without her here. It had only been a little over a month since he’d been brought here, but her unconditional love for him had helped carry him forward and given surety to his steps.

* * *

Supper turned out to be much better than Gendry had expected.  The Starks had decided to eat dinner on their own the night before the feast. The Queen and King had gotten into a sour argument that day, which meant that they were not eating together as a family. Gendry had decided to eat with his uncles. He’d been in such foul mood after today that he wanted to show both of them that he was intent on not letting it bother him. Lord Renly knew especially how weighted down he felt and how easy he let things get to him. Besides, he always enjoyed eating dinner with them more because they didn’t judge him so much as the Queen did. This time, his father had joined them as well, which was all and well, except that Stannis being there did not stop him from drinking too much.

“I heard about the mishap with the girl during your dancing lesson with Renly,” King Robert stated halfway through dinner.

Did everyone in the Seven Kingdoms know about his clumsiness? “I am not… I’m not the best dancer,” Gendry admitted.

King Robert waved a hand around. “It’s not dancing on the floor that you need to worry about anyways.” A grin split onto his face. “You’re nearly a man grown. It’s dancing in the bedroom with girls that should concern you more.”

Gendry swallowed his food too quickly, nearly causing himself to choke on the turkey.

“Don’t start on the boy now,” Stannis grumbled, his voice filled with disgust and aggravation. “Just because he’s of bastard blood does not mean he’s nearly as lecherous as you.”

Before the king could even start on about how Gendry was not a bastard, Renly cut in, “What our brother is trying to say, Your Grace, is that Gendry is still a boy. He’s probably not too concerned about girls and more about his lessons.” His uncle peered at him. “Aren’t you, Gendry?”

“Of course,” Gendry replied, nodding his head with as much enthusiasm as possible.

His father eyed him carefully. “So, no girls have caught your fancy? You’re royalty now. You can have almost any girl you want.”

“No, I–” Gendry felt like there was a lump caught in his throat or maybe a piece of turkey that he hadn’t been able to swallow completely. All three men were looking at him, as if they expected a list of girls to come spilling out of him, as it probably would his father. He’d already had the displeasure of going to see his father, only to find Ser Jaime Lannister standing outside the king’s bedchambers while a harem of women was entertaining the king. Gendry had been so embarrassed by the peals of laughter and moaning that he’d hid in kitchen for hours so no one could find him. His father was the king; and as king, he could have any amount of women that he wanted. As a prince, well…he had certain liberties as well, something he hadn’t even begin to think about yet.

“Ah, he’s young and still shy,” the king decided, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “In another year or two, that hot Baratheon blood will almost be too much to handle. It was for me. I had my first bastard when I was still in the Eyrie with Jon and Ned.”

“One of your proudest moments and finest accomplishments in your youth, I’m sure,” Stannis added.

It struck Gendry then and there that he was not the first bastard that Robert Baratheon had whelped. He had thought that maybe that was why he had been legitimized while the king’s other bastard children had not been. If he was the first, then maybe there was some sort of reasoning for him being the only one legitimized. But who knew how many had come before him or after him.

“How many did you have?” Gendry blurted out. The king just stared at him, so Gendry continued, “I mean, how many bastards did you have, Your Grace, if it not too improper for me to ask…” Still, no one said anything. A part of him was screaming at him to stop, to apologize and keep eating his food, but now that the thought was in his head, he couldn’t get it out. How many bastards had he been chosen over? How many had Robert ignored in his place? How many were still running around, not knowing who their father was,  maybe even completely parentless, on the street or in the a little town without a name. How many could not even comprehend what it was like to have a father’s love or pride? “It’s just… I want to know how many siblings I have.”

“Well, that is a good question,” the king finally said. He picked up his glass of wine, thought for a second, and then sipped on it. It was the slowest drink that Gendry had ever seen the man take. “There was the girl in the Eyrie, then another girl somewhere in the Riverlands, that girl from the whorehouse in King’s Landing…”

“Don’t forget the one you created on my wedding night,” Stannis pointed out, sounding grumpier than ever before. Renly seemed to be biting back a smile at that comment, but said nothing on the matter. “Edric Storm.”

“Ah, it does not matter though now,” the king said, shrugging his shoulders and draining the rest of the wine from his cup. “What matters is that you are here and so is Ned and there is going to be a grand tourney and feast tomorrow.” He squeezed Gendry’s shoulder. “Mayhaps we can even make a man out of you.”

Gendry was so lost in his thoughts about the amount of siblings he had floating around the Seven Kingdoms that all he did was nod his head in response. He didn’t even flush or hide away from the thought. What was it about him that made him more Baratheon than all the others? What had it been about him that had made his father legitimize him almost on the spot of finding out his existence?

“Don’t think about it too much,” his uncle Renly said after dinner, having noticed how quiet that Gendry had become. “It’ll only give you a headache, trying to think about what goes on in a king’s mind. He has some fairly fanciful notions.”

“Like when it came to legitimizing me?” Gendry asked.

Renly only smiled. “That was one of his better decisions, I think.”


End file.
